A Floral Profiling

 It is the unofficial beginning of summer and to that end, prep here on the Coast of Illinois has been in full swing. (Think ten cubic tons of mulch and a small loan from the local nursery.) Consequently, I have been so sore from digging I have been unable to lift my arms to type. Or I have been too preoccupied with reading Padma Lakshmi's new autobiography and watching The Night Manager. 
Whatevs.
Memorial Day, while always about remembering our Veterans, has long been a semi-secret competition among the people here on the Coast of Illinois. A sweet, well meaning competition, and absolutely a sincere event, but a competition none the less.

So if you see me coming at you with a flat of any of the below mentioned flowers, I suggest you run.
But not into traffic.  


Marigolds, petunias and geraniums. That is the hierarchy, the rank, if you will of which flower goes on which grave. Marigolds are for the distant relatives, the ones that have been gone the longest. Petunias are for the next in line- cousins, step family and 'the baby graves'. Geraniums go to the top ranking relatives – parents, grandparents, the favorite Aunts and Uncles. They also go on the yet to be filled graves that belong to the double headstone relatives. The ones that plan to be buried next to their spouse (or favorite spouse in the case of one Aunt) but who may not be quite dead yet.

I learned this class system early in my childhood. Every May I would accompany my Mom on a tour of The Cemeteries. We would pack the trunk of the car with jugs of water, small garden shovels and flats of fresh flowering plants. East Cemetery was mostly Mom's relatives. The West Cemetery mostly Dad's. It was also the final resting place of those sad yet scary 'baby graves'. I always preferred the West Cemetery. It sat on the top of a large hill – nearly unheard of in the middle of Cornfield Illinois, and felt spacious and airy. The East Cemetery felt older, more enclosed with its large oak trees and winding gravel paths. Plus, from the top of the West Cemetery I could almost make out my grandparents farm and it was fun to see the place where I had many adventures from a different vantage point.

The Decoration Day ritual was an adventure when I was young. It became a chore when I grew older. When we had to drive ninety minutes to reach the cemeteries it was the definition of dread. Yet, as we began to divide up the flowers and dig the holes and soak them with water my attitude changed. Mom would tell the stories: this was the great great uncle from the Civil War, here was The Favorite Aunt's second husband, who ran out the back door when her first came in the front. Over that hill was the sweet great grandma, who's husband was murdered in a robbery. And here is the resting place of grandma's sister. She was never given the title of Aunt. A child who dies at the age of five because it took too long to acquire treatment for rabies earns a special place in history instead. One after another, the headstones would be anointed with history and flora. If Mom took too long to get to a favorite story we would ask. 'Now who did those babies belong too?' 'Which one of these guys died from a ruptured appendix?' Leftover flowers would go on some of the plain stones in 'Potter's Field' where the drunk was buried. Seriously, how can you not remember a guy named 'Commodore'.

The decorating needed to be done well in advance of the holiday so everyone could see that there were still living family around. But not too early – the flowers had to stay fresh. Heaven forbid we use those 'tacky' plastic flowers and don't get me started on the horrifying pictures which sprang into my overactive brain at the mention of 'grave blankets'. After walking gingerly around the stones, diligently placing the correct flower in its place we would stop and survey a large empty space on the eastern slope of the West Cemetery. There - enough empty grave sites for each of their immediate family. Here, it was noted, was where my Grandparents had saved us places.

It has been many years since I went on the grave decorating expedition. I do take the opportunity each year to share with our kids the stories these trips bring to mind. However, I have omitted the information regarding the available graves. Frankly, I prefer to take my chances with the seating arrangement for my eternal rest.

And also... I prefer daisies.

Memorial Day is also one of the most dangerous holidays on the road. PLEASE  WEAR YOUR SEATBELT AND DRIVE RESPONSIBLY - this includes but not limited to NO TEXTING! Don't let your holiday end like this:

Amazingly everyone walked away alive with only a few broken ribs and a dinged up hand and knee. All drivers and passengers involved were wearing their seatbelts. They did, however, screw up the delicious dinner I was cooking. 

This post ran on Coast of Illinois on Memorial Day 2013. I originally wrote it as part of an essay challenge on a long gone writer's group. Come back later this week when, I promise, there will be new, original and hopefully hilarious material.

Helloooo Summer!

It is 8:15 on Sunday. Memorial Day weekend 2015.

The neighbor, whose house I can not see because our yards were mapped by a drunk mathematician with a love of rhombussy parallelograms, has cranked up the radio. (Yes, radio. Not satellite, not iPod, not Pandora.) He has cranked up the good old fashioned radio. How do I know it is a radio? Because the DJ just shouted the call letters KSHE-95! And now what started as the end of an Allman Brother's tune has ramped up to 'Rough Boys' and The Who. And while I prefer the soundtrack of my life to be a tiny bit mellower on a Sunday morning, I can appreciate the sentiment.

We, my neighbor and I , both grew up in the 1970's when Memorial Day Weekend meant the swimming pools were open, school was over and for three glorious months we had absolutely no responsibilities. (Except for those two weeks when it was corn de-tasselling season; an activity unique to Cornfield USA. This is a time when teenagers are loaded into a truck, dropped at the entrance to a cornfield and slowly, meticulously walk the rows, pulling off the silky corn tassels to aid in hybridization leading to bigger yields. This was back when genetic engineering was spoken of in hushed tones in the back rooms of men's clubs.)

I never got to be part of the de-tasselling crowd. My Dad, knowing me all too well, informed me that the last thing I wanted to do was walk around in hot scratchy cornfields with a bunch of cute high school guys who would probably, eventually need to remove their shirts.

But, I digress.

While many things have changed, Memorial Day will forever mark the beginning of summer. (Yes, astrophysicists, I am aware that the true beginning of summer is June 21, when the stars align and Aquarius buys the world a coke.) To me, it seems that so many traditions are falling by the wayside. We no longer go on day long pilgrimages to decorate graves.

Gone are the seasonal availability of fruits and vegetables – thanks to those amazing people in Chile and New Zealand we can eat apples and strawberries all year round.Although I have to take issue with the so called 'January tomatoes'.

Television programs are now on-demand, TIVOed, and available for binge-watching. There was a time, back when we had to turn the channel by hand, that nearly everything in the summer was a re-run and we counted down the days until September and Saturday Cartoon Preview Friday happened!  I hate to admit it, but there are several new shows, which I am looking forward to, starting this SUMMER!
Simply unheard of in the days of manual genetic modification and wearing white only after the end of May.

I no longer have kids in school, or anxiously looking forward to that 'last day' and later the 'first day'. I no longer belong to a swimming pool. I now have to plan vacations around four adult work schedules. My husband grills year round and due to my inability to keep food off my person, I rarely wear white.

So I am here to say THANK YOU to my neighbor with the hearing impairment. Without you and your awesome sound system I would have nothing but a date on the calendar to mark the unofficial beginning of summer. 

 

This is my Summer home! Please note Robert Palm Tree to the left, who managed to survive winter in the basement and Carmen Miranda on the right who enjoyed a warm winter off my kitchen. Also - that leaning StoneHenge in the background, in my other neighbor's yard? Use to be the frame for a swing but is now a condo for tiny birds. I wonder if I should call FEMA when it finally falls over...

Now, before anyone gets all "Memorial Day is about more than YOU having a three day weekend" - I have written much more serious posts about remembrance. Please check out these links for the story of my family's Memorial Day celebrations and service. 

Memorial Day 2013

Memorial Day 2014

(and if you are super bored, check out a previous post regarding my neighborhood and music: 

Summer Sounds. But at least be sitting outside when you do so, unless you are under severe storm watch, then enjoy from the confines of your bathtub.)
 

Happy Memorial Day everyone!

And please, I am on call this holiday so for Pete's Sake:

WEAR YOUR SEAT BELTS!

DON'T DRINK AND DRIVE!

CONSUME FOOD IN MODERATE AMOUNTS AND ALWAYS COOKED TO AN APPROPRIATE INTERNAL TEMPERATURE!

*And thank you Mad Men, for allowing Don Draper to reintroduce that awesome Coca-Cola advertisement.

Before You Fire Up That Grill

Memorial Day Weekend.

Summer's kick-off.

I don't know about you, but after this heinous winter I am more than ready for 200% humidity and thunderstorms every evening at rush hour. The deck furniture sports its cushions. The flower beds are popping with color which theoretically should last until autumn and the one week of 0% humidity we have here on the Coast of Illinois.

But, I digress.

Memorial Day is more than Summer's welcome mat. For those of you who live outside the United States, and maybe a few of you who do...this is a designated time to remember and thank those who have served or continue to serve our country. 

As a ten-year old, I was more interested in protesting than thanking. The Vietnam War was in full swing. The nightly news was filled with stories of Laos and Cambodia and long-haired men in khaki jackets and long-haired women in flowy dresses and flowered headbands waving protest signs.

My neighborhood buddy and I spent hours, hiding out in the back room of our chicken house devising clever protest slogans and dissing the current administration. Christy wore one of those green khaki army jackets.

There was nothing I wanted more at the time than to wear one of those over-sized, heavy canvas, khaki green jackets. I begged my Dad to allow me to wear his. I begged him over and over. To which he always replied, 'you can wear one when you enlist and get your own'.

This really annoyed me. Mostly because I was only ten. I was being denied an awesome fashion statement because of my age. (It never occurred to me that, as a woman in 1970, my job in the military would have been pretty much limited to secretarial jobs or nursing. This inequality would have triggered another wave of chicken coop protests.)

Military service has always been controversial here in the Land of Free Speech. Sometimes we forget that our freedom of speech is directly protected by those same people, policies and actions we condemn.

I think the jacket Christy wore had belonged to her Dad and she wore it in support of her brother who was in one of those exotic sounding Vietnam locales. She DID NOT wear it in support of the war.

And that is an important distinction. It is a distinction that our country has been slow to learn.

I am lucky. There is a long history of military service in my family. Everyone came home.

My mother's dad - WWI

My father's dad - WWI 

                                                                    Doughboys?

 

My uncle WWII

                                                                           Fly-boy?

My father-in-law WWII

                                  Thus making my son an actual Son-of a- Son- of a- Sailor

My Dad. Army Reserve.

                                                       That adorable baby would be me.

Neither of my children have chosen to serve and I can't say I am sorry. But many of my friends have children and spouses in service. And to them I say:

Thank you.

Say thank-you in a more concrete manner by supporting our Veterans through the many organizations available. The ones closest to my heart provide support for PTSD and injury recovery.

For my friend Penny in honor of her son Adam...

http://www.hope4ptsdvets.org/

http://www.woundedwarriorproject.org/

Have a wonderful holiday weekend. Drive safely. Wear your seat belt and sunscreen. Cook all pork until 145-160 degrees.

And HELLOOOOO Summer!

The rare Coast of Illinois Flamingo in its natural habitat.

Memorial Day

As this is a holiday weekend and I am in the middle of prepping for our youngest child's  college graduation party I am recycling an old essay on Memorial Day. For my non-United States readers - Memorial Day is the day we dedicate to remembering those who have died in military service. Of course, it has also become a day to remember everyone who has passed. The day was originally named Decoration Day. All military graves were adorned with small flags. In our family we made yearly trips with trunkloads of flowers to place on family graves. But, because this is a little more serious essay than I normally post I would like to leave you with this: If you do an internet search for 'screaming dead comedian' you will, in fact, get information on Sam Kinison. Who is an odd choice of person to be thinking about at 7:05 AM on a Sunday when I should be dusting and vacuuming and running to the store...And, on that note I will leave you with:

                                                          Memorial Day

Marigolds, petunias and geraniums. That is the hierarchy, the rank, if you will of which flower goes on which grave. Marigolds are for the distant relatives, the ones that have been gone the longest. Petunias are for the next in line- cousins, step family and 'the baby graves'. Geraniums go to the top ranking relatives – parents, grandparents, the favorite Aunts and Uncles. They also go on the yet to be filled graves that belong to the double headstone relatives. The ones that plan to be buried next to their spouse (or favorite spouse in the case of one Aunt) but who may not be quite dead yet.

I learned this class system early in my childhood. Every May I would accompany my Mom on a tour of The Cemeteries. We would pack the trunk of the car with jugs of water, small garden shovels and flats of fresh flowering plants. East Cemetery was mostly Mom's relatives. The West Cemetery mostly Dad's. It was also the final resting place of those sad yet scary 'baby graves'. I always preferred the West Cemetery. It sat on the top of a large hill – nearly unheard of in the middle of Cornfield Illinois, and felt spacious and airy. The East Cemetery felt older, more enclosed with its large oak trees and winding gravel paths. Plus, from the top of the West Cemetery I could almost make out my grandparents farm and it was fun to see the place where I had many adventures from a different vantage point.

The Decoration Day ritual was an adventure when I was young. It became a chore when I grew older. When we had to drive ninety minutes to reach the cemeteries it was the definition of dread. Yet, as we began to divide up the flowers and dig the holes and soak them with water my attitude changed. Mom would tell the stories: this was the great great uncle from the Civil War, here was The Favorite Aunt's second husband, who ran out the back door when her first came in the front. Over that hill was the sweet great grandma, who's husband was murdered in a robbery. And here is the resting place of grandma's sister. She was never given the title of Aunt. A child who dies at the age of five because it took too long to acquire treatment for rabies earns a special place in history instead. One after another, the headstones would be anointed with history and flora. If Mom took too long to get to a favorite story we would ask. 'Now who did those babies belong too?' 'Which one of these guys died from a ruptured appendix?' Leftover flowers would go on some of the plain stones in 'Potter's Field' where the drunk was buried. Seriously, how can you not remember a guy named 'Commodore'.

The decorating needed to be done well in advance of the holiday so everyone could see that there were still living family around. But not too early – the flowers had to stay fresh. Heaven forbid we use those 'tacky' plastic flowers and don't get me started on the horrifying pictures which sprang into my overactive brain at the mention of 'grave blankets'. After walking gingerly around the stones, diligently placing the correct flower in its place we would stop and survey a large empty space on the eastern slope of the West Cemetery. There - enough empty grave sites for each of their immediate family. Here, it was noted, was where my Grandparents had saved us places.

It has been many years since I went on the grave decorating expedition. I do take the opportunity each year to share with our kids the stories these trips bring to mind. However, I have omitted the information regarding the available graves. Frankly, I prefer to take my chances with the seating arrangement for my eternal rest.

And also... I prefer daisies.

Memorial Day is also one of the most dangerous holidays on the road. PLEASE  WEAR YOUR SEATBELT AND DRIVE RESPONSIBLY! Don't let your holiday end like this: 

Amazingly everyone walked away alive with only a few broken ribs and a dinged up hand and knee. All drivers and passengers involved were wearing their seatbelts. They did, however, screw up the delicious dinner I was cooking.